Vulpes Medico: Clever Fox
by FemaleChauvinist
Summary: As Rawlstow studies the book of healer's lore Father Christmas gave him, will there be things only a clever fox could think of? [Chapters 1 & 2 edited Feb. 2016]
1. Spring Fever

**Disclaimer: **While the attempt has been made to be medically accurate as far as is consistent with the fantasy world of Narnia, some artistic license has been taken, and statements made by Rawlstow are not to be regarded as authoritative.  
Narnia and recognizable characters thereof are the property of the estate of C. S. Lewis; all original characters and story © 2016 FemaleChauvinist.

_Do not post without permission. Do not copy/print without including the above disclaimer in its entirety._

**A/N: This story's main character is introduced in my story "Vulpes Medico: Winter's End," so you might wonder about some things if you haven't read that one first. Barbie **

_[Chapter edited 2-18-16]_

**Chapter One: Spring Fever**

Struggling for breath, the fox Vroxa mused about the irony of it all. She had longed for Spring as fervently as any Narnian under the White Witch's rule, but by a sad twist of fate it was the thaw that would cause her death.

From her days as a kit, she had never known running water. Even during the longest spells of relativity warm weather, it had always been safe to cross any river or lake on foot. So, even with icicles dripping to nothing around her and slushy snow giving way to soft mud that made wild hope beat in her heart, it had never occurred to Vroxa that the ice might no longer be thick enough to bear her until it cracked beneath her paws, sending her plunging into the freezing water with a wild bark of terror. *****

She had never before had cause to swim; fortunately several generations had not been enough to lose the instinctual knowledge. Coughing and shivering, she at last managed to pull herself out to lie flat on the ice.

For a moment she simply lay panting, exhausted and terrified to move lest the ice break under her again. Finally she slowly crawled on her belly to a shaded patch near the bank where the ice was thicker.

But here, too, there was danger. Untouched by the sun as the frost returned with evening, this ice had no coating of water on it, and Vroxa's wet paw pads stuck to the dry, cold surface, tearing cruelly as she pulled them free and leaving bloody prints behind.

She whimpered as she made her way back through the muck, managing at last to reach her den. Unlike some of the Talking Animals, she lived much as her wild cousins did, and with no fire to warm her and dry her fur, she could only curl into a miserable, shivering ball, licking half-heartedly at her stinging paws.

Within two days, it was obvious that the White Witch had been defeated and this was truly Spring; it was also painfully obvious to Vroxa that, weakened as she was by the Winter, she wouldn't live to enjoy it. Coughing and feverish, her paws throbbing, it was all she could do to drag herself to the front of the den to at least _see_ the Spring.

There she lay, her head on her paws, and waited with glassy eyes for Death to come. Sometimes she shivered so hard with fever that she thought it was still Winter; other times she was sure this Spring must be only a feverish dream.

At last she lay drifting in and out of a dazed half consciousness, and barely heard the shrill yaps and barks of three young fox kits who happened upon her sickbed.

**oOo**

After three days of glorious Spring, the memory of Winter began to seem as if it must have been a horrible dream. The population of wild animals, hunted nearly to extinction by the starving Talking Beasts, seemed to explode overnight. The young fox Rawlstow found himself wondering if Aslan had simply created them out of nothing; with all the old fairy tales coming true around him, nothing seemed too fantastic to believe anymore.

With all the fresh mouse they could eat at every meal, Rawlstow could nearly watch his sisters becoming plumper and healthier before his eyes.

The days were too inviting to stay inside, but Rawlstow had spent most of his evening hours studying the magical book of healer's lore Father Christmas had given him. During the day, he hunted for herbs to increase his store of remedies.

On this day he sent his three sisters to play while he foraged, with a stern warning not to eat anything with which they were unfamiliar. It was a lesson Vivian had already learned the hard way; Rawlstow had found her just in time to make her vomit the toadstools she had eaten, and she had been very ill the rest of the day. But by morning she seemed to have recovered with no lasting effects, and now she trotted through the woods ahead of her sisters, doubling back to jump on them and roll through the ferns together for sheer joy.

Leaves and bits of twig clung to their fur as they emerged at last in a small clearing. A hill rose in front of them, with a dark opening inviting curious kits to explore. But as she caught sight of something within the opening, Vivian stopped short, causing Velma and Verdette to trip over her and tumble together in the leaves once more.

"Look!" Vivian yapped, and her sisters rolled to their feet.

"What?" Velma whispered, suddenly timid.

"It looks — like a _fox_!" Verdette exclaimed. As one, she and Vivian raced across the clearing, with Velma only half a step behind.

"Is…it dead?" Velma whimpered, peering over her sisters' shoulders.

Vivian crouched down close to the fox's muzzle. "It's breathin', I think," she said doubtfully.

"Of course it is!" Verdette declared stoutly. "Listen!"

Indeed, now all three of them could hear the fox's congested breathing, and wondered that there had been any doubt.

Vivian batted at the fox's shoulder with a paw. "Wake up!"

A moan was her only response, so soft it could have been imagined.

"W'should get Rawlstow," Verdette said soberly.

"And leave it _alone_?" Velma exclaimed. Her momentary fear gone, she felt only sympathy for the sick Beast.

"Y'c'n stay," Verdette told her.

"I will!" Velma barked almost defiantly. Within moments her sisters had disappeared from view, and Velma licked the sick fox's nose. "Don't worry," she whispered. "They'll be back w'Rawlstow soon." She curled up beside the fox's head, doing her best to give all the comfort she could offer.

**oOo**

Rawlstow heard his sisters' excited yapping long before they came into view and barked sharply in response to let them know where he was, standing tense as he realized he heard only two voices. "Where's Velma?" he demanded as Vivian and Verdette tumbled into the clearing where he was gathering his herbs.

Too excited to Speak, the two kits barked and yapped at the same time, so that it took Rawlstow a moment to piece together a coherent understanding of what they had found and where Velma was.

"Calm down!" he ordered. "Is this fox y'found a _Talkin'_ Fox?"

Vivian and Verdette looked at each other. "We don't know," Verdette admitted.

"Rawlstow, y'have t'come anyway!" Vivian demanded, tugging on a mouthful of her brother's fur. *****

"O'course I will," he told her. "Ow! Stop that, Vivian; I'm comin'." Leaving the bag of herbs where it lay, he followed his sisters as they dashed into the woods.

He could easily have outdistanced them, following their scent back, but he chose to let them lead, still yapping and barking as they ran. With all that commotion, Rawlstow mused wryly as they emerged into the clearing and Velma came running to meet them, the fox _must_ be quite sick not to rouse.

Under the odour of sickness, Rawlstow detected as he approached the faint scent that told him the fox was female. "Miss?" he barked, getting as he expected no response.

"It's a girl?" Verdette demanded.

"Yes," Rawlstow said absently, pressing his nose lightly to hers and finding it hot and dry.

"How can y'tell?" Vivian demanded, trotting nearly under his paws.

Rawlstow rounded on her with an impatient yap, and she jumped back several feet, her tail between her legs.

A quick glance into the interior of the den told Rawlstow that there was no means to light a fire; to care for her adequately he would have to bring her back to his own den. He grimaced slightly at the thought of walking so far on his hind legs, especially carrying another full-grown fox, but didn't hesitate before gathering her into his forelegs.

Even with his own strength not fully come after the Winter, he was surprised at how light she was. Was there anything more to her than fur and bones? he wondered. No wonder she was so ill; her starved body wouldn't have any defences.

"Don't trip me up," he warned the kits, and began the long trek back to the den.

**oOo**

Vroxa drifted up through her feverish haze, becoming a bit more aware of her surroundings. But surely this was merely another dream of her delirium, as she seemed to be carried by a strong young dog fox.

Too weary to know or care whether it was real, she let herself enjoy the thick warmth of his fur as she once more sank into unconsciousness.

**oOo**

Rawlstow's back was screaming in pain by the time they reached the den. "Pull th'featherbed in front of th'fire," he panted. "Not s'close y'burn it, mind!"

The kits hurried to obey, tugging the featherbed to the warmth of the hearth. *****

Rawlstow lay the fox on the soft cushion, barely avoiding tumbling on top of her as his hind legs trembled with strain. He pulled himself up, then simply stood for a moment, enjoying the relief of being on four paws again.

A weak cough from the pallet brought his attention back to his charge, and he gave her nose a quick swipe with his tongue before forcing himself to his hind legs again to put some water to heat and dish up a little of the broth that was simmering on the stove.

"Miss Fox? Miss Fox, c'n y'hear me?"

Golden eyes slitted open the tiniest bit, but Rawlstow had no idea how aware she might be.

"I need ye t'drink some o'this," Rawlstow coaxed.

If she heard, she gave no sign, and she seemed to show no interest even when he dribbled a few drops on her tongue.

Knowing she needed nourishment, Rawlstow set the bowl aside with a sigh and turned his attention to her paws. He had noted as he carried her that the dried mud which caked them looked and smelled suspiciously like it was mixed with blood, and as he soaked it off with warm water his suspicions were confirmed. Her pads were raw and angry red, most of the skin torn off and the tissue beneath hot and swollen. Watching over his shoulder, Verdette whimpered in sympathy, lifting her own paws one by one as if they were sore as well.

"Get me th'salve," Rawlstow ordered without turning around. It was one of the first remedies he had concocted, his sisters managing to get cut or scratched almost daily.

He licked the wounds thoroughly clean, taking it as a good sign when she whined slightly and tried weakly to pull her paws away.

When he was satisfied that no dirt remained, he took the salve Velma handed him and spread it generously over the sores.

"Let's try th'broth again," he decided, and turned to find Vivian standing beside an empty bowl with a guilty expression on her face.

"I was hungry, Rawlstow — an' _she_ didn't want it!"

Rawlstow growled softly at her, and though she knew her brother would never hurt her, Vivian tucked her tail between her legs and ran for the far side of the den.

Rawlstow dished up a fresh serving of broth, and this time managed to get the fox to swallow a few spoonfuls.

"Watch her," he told Velma and Verdette. "Let m'know if anythin' changes."

The two kits sat down to stare at the fox, taking their charge so seriously that Rawlstow would have chuckled if he hadn't been so troubled. Going to where Father Christmas's book lay, he flipped it open with a paw.

As always when he was looking with some intent and not merely browsing, the magic of the book let it open just to the place he needed.

What he read of coughs and laboured breathing did nothing to ease his mind, especially after laying his ear to the fox's back and recognizing the sounds the book described as indicative of pneumonia.

"Is she goin' to die, Rawlstow?" Velma asked, seeing the gravity of her brother's face.

"I hope not," Rawlstow said soberly, looking again to the book for the recommended treatment. There seemed to be little that could be done, the suggested measures successful in only about half the cases the healer had treated.

But he had to try, Rawlstow thought grimly as he prepared the poultice for her back and chest and placed a pan of hot water where she could breathe the steam. Surely infusing some herbs in the water would help, he mused, but the book gave no hint as to which, if any, would be effectual.

Sniffing among his store, Rawlstow chose the one whose scent seemed most to open his own air passages, and on a whim added a sprinkling to the water. If it worked, perhaps he would be able to add the first entry to the book that was in the hand of a fox.

But it seemed it was not to be. If anything the fox's breathing grew worse, and Rawlstow tried steam without the herbs, then various other herbs from his store, with no discernible difference. As he listened to the congestion in her lungs, he wished she would cough, but she seemed too utterly spent to make the effort.

Rawlstow took to steeping the herbs for her fever in the rich broth he coaxed her to drink, so that the little she swallowed would provide both medicine and nourishment.

Long after the kits had gone to bed, Rawlstow sat up with the sick fox. Again and again he turned to his book, hoping to find something he had missed, but even its magic couldn't show him a cure that hadn't first been discovered by an owner of one of the copies.

"Oh, Aslan," he groaned. "Aslan, only you can heal her now."

He prayed through the night as he continued giving her what treatment he could, sleeping only in brief snatches.

When morning came, the kits crept soberly around the den, shy and scared now in the presence of Death. Soon they slipped outside, where they seemed to forget their guest as Rawlstow heard their usual happy barks. He could hardly blame them; they were young and Spring was still new to them…and he suspected they had more faith than they should in his abilities as a healer.

They had been outside perhaps half an hour when Velma trotted in, a bouquet of fragrant flowers in her mouth. Dropping it in front of the fox's muzzle, she licked her nose. "Th'Winter's over," she told her. "Spring is too _nice_ to be sick!"

Rawlstow nearly told Velma to take her flowers and go play, when suddenly he realized that maybe she had the right idea. Perhaps the reason the fox seemed to have no will to live was that she didn't realize the White Witch's Winter was over — and in that case he could hardly blame her. Who among them had not thought at least once of how pleasant it would be to curl up in the snow and simply give up? And surely that feeling would be even stronger if one was sick to begin with.

Bending down, he licked her ear as hard as he could. "Velma's right," he told her. "Y'can't give up now that Spring has come!"

The fox's nostrils quivered, so faintly at first that Rawlstow feared he was imagining it. But Velma, too, had seen it, and helpfully pushed the flowers a little closer.

This time there was no doubt; the fox tried to sniff the flowers, then fell into a hard fit of wracking coughs. Velma cringed, fearing she had only made things worse, and in his concern for the patient Rawlstow had no time to spare to reassure his sister.

The fox gasped for breath as the coughs shook her body without rest, and Rawlstow lightly pummelled her back with both forepaws to help loosen the congestion. Then suddenly she gagged, choking on the phlegm that filled her throat.

Rawlstow quickly forced her mouth open, but found his paw wouldn't reach far enough to clear her airway and found himself envying humans their long, dexterous fingers. With barely a moment's thought, he grabbed one of Velma's flowers, using the end of the long stem to tickle the back of the fox's throat.

She gagged again, then retched, gasped for breath, and fell into another fit of coughing as Rawlstow cleared the thick mucus from her mouth.

It was at least fifteen minutes before she at last lay quietly, limp and weary, but her breathing a little easier.

"I — didn't mean t'make her cough!" Velma whimpered, still backing away as if fearful of Rawlstow's wrath.

Rawlstow licked her ear. "Y'may have saved her life," he told her.

"I did?" Velma asked in wide-eyed disbelief.

"Aye." He licked her ear again, and Velma's tongue lolled out of her mouth in a pleased grin. *****

**oOo**

The improvement continued throughout the day; still never fully conscious, the fox seemed more aware of her surroundings and lapped willingly at the herb-infused broth Rawlstow offered. He had placed Velma's flowers in a mug of water beside her head, hoping the fragrance would encourage her to continue to get well.

She was coughing more often now as the mucus continued to loosen, and each time Rawlstow massaged her back to help her bring it up. After clearing her mouth, he would again listen to her breathing.

By evening her lungs had grown noticeably clearer, and as night shrouded the den in darkness she seemed to Rawlstow to be falling into a restful sleep unlike her previous unconsciousness.

Feeling sure she was out of danger now, Rawlstow curled up near the featherbed and allowed himself to get some sleep as well, though always alert to anything she might need.

**oOo**

Vroxa opened her eyes slowly, then stared dazedly at the objects in the mug in front of her. _Flowers,_ the word came to mind from an old fairy tale, but surely there were no flowers in Narnia. At least not for years and years, perhaps a hundred; ever since the White Witch had begun her cruel reign.

She felt warm, too; comfortably warm for the first time she could remember. She might have thought she had died and gone to Aslan's Country, if not for the unpleasant full tightness in her chest. She felt better now than she had, she realized dimly, but still a sharp pain with every breath let her know she was alive.

She lay languidly for a moment before giving in to the urge to cough, a deep cough that made her lungs ache and her throat burn.

To her surprise, she felt someone kneading her back, helping her get up the phlegm. She spat weakly, and a black paw was there to wipe her mouth for her.

It was a fox, she realized, and recalled as if through a haze that he had been tending her for some time, though she had taken him for only a dream.

"Yer awake, I see," he said softly, his voice pleasant with just the right Vulpine burr to it.

"Where-where am I?" she rasped weakly, surprised at how rough her own voice sounded.

"In m'den," he told her. "I'm Rawlstow; m'sisters found ye burnin' w'fever, so I brought y'back here t'tend ye." He pressed his nose to hers. "Yer fever's down now, but yer still a little warm."

"Are you — a healer?"

He cocked his head, appearing uncertain of the answer. "I know somethin' about healin'," he said after a moment. "And what's yer name?"

"Vroxa." She stared again at the flowers; seeing the direction of her gaze, Rawlstow smiled. "Th'Winter's over, Vroxa," he said simply. "Aslan h's brought Spring at last."

By the time Rawlstow had listened to Vroxa's lungs and given her some broth, the kits were awake and excited to see that their guest was also alert. Rawlstow laughingly attempted to introduce them as they scrambled around until there seemed to be far more than three.

"Calm down," Rawlstow yapped. "Yer goin' t'wear her out just watchin' ye."

The kits obediently sat, and Verdette regarded Vroxa with her head cocked to one side. "Rawlstow, her fur's all messed up. C'n we comb it out?"

Rawlstow sighed. "D'y'mind?" he asked Vroxa.

"No…" she murmured. "Sounds…nice."

"All right, then. But mind y'don't pull too hard; some of those knots likely need t'be cut off."

"Oh, _no_, Rawlstow!" Verdette exclaimed in horror.

Rawlstow licked her nose. "Y'do what y'c'n first."

The kits settled around Vroxa and began teasing out the knots with surprisingly gentle claws. Vroxa found the gentle tugging curiously soothing; their little tongues as they licked smooth the patches they had detangled even more so. She was dozing by the time they finished, her fur remaining dull and patchy in places, but still much improved.

"See, we did it all without cutting!" Vivian boasted, not counting the times she had lost patience and snipped a knot off with her sharp teeth.

"But we couldn't reach her belly," Verdette said regretfully. "C'n y'roll her, Rawlstow?"

"Leave it for now," Rawlstow told her. "There'll be time enough t'tend to it later."

**oOo**

Vroxa's recovery was amazingly quick after that, and soon she was hobbling out of the den on her bandaged paws to lie blissfully in the Spring sunshine.

Rawlstow had laid his ear often against her back or the side of her chest while she lay so ill, and thought nothing of it. But as he checked her breathing one day well into her convalescence, he suddenly became aware of the intimate nature of his position and drew back, his face flaming under the fur.

"Are y'all right?" Vroxa questioned curiously as he stepped back so fast he stumbled over his own paws.

"Yes," Rawlstow barked hastily, too flustered for Speech. "I-I think yer well enough that I don't need t'keep checkin' yer breathin'."

Vroxa smiled slowly, slightly flattered as it dawned on her what the problem was. "I don't mind," she told him shyly.

Rawlstow's face flamed hotter; for the first time since Winter had ended, he found himself wishing for a snowbank to dive into. "Yes, well…" he murmured, wishing the kits would come tumbling in. He made up his mind not to check Vroxa again unless they were in the den with him. "I wonder if there's a better way to do it," he mused, his thoughts turning slightly more practical as he considered the subject.

"If there is, I'm sure you'll find it," Vroxa said confidently.

Rawlstow shook his head. "None of the centaur healers who owned my book ever found a way."

Vroxa laughed. "And do y'think that means one doesn't exist? Who cares about what centaurs say? They always think they're so wise, but _I_ think a sly fox is cleverer than a centaur any day."

_*** Link to illustration can be found in the Narnia folder of my DeviantArt account.**_

**Next week…will Rawlstow find the better way?**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	2. Clever Fox

_[Chapter edited 2-22-16]_

**Chapter Two: Clever Fox**

The problem remained on Rawlstow's mind even after Vroxa had returned to her den. Poring through his book still yielded nothing on the subject, though he never failed to find something else that he hadn't seen before. He wondered sometimes how many volumes the book would have been if all its contents had been written out in ordinary, non-magical books.

One afternoon he watched as the kits rolled and tussled on the ground in front of the den. Suddenly Vivian sat up. "I c'n hear hooves through the ground!" she declared.

Startled, Rawlstow laid his ear to the ground and discovered she was right. Moments later, the sound was audible through the air, and then a stag bounded past.

So, Rawlstow mused, sound could be carried through solid objects… The seed of an idea planted, he began sketching designs on a roll of birch bark. Perhaps there would even be a way to amplify the sounds…

He worked over the sketches until he was happy with the design, then took the final plan to the dwarves to ask if they could make the device for him.

"See, I need t'have different size metal plates t'fit on fer different size animals," he explained the design of what he called a listener.

"We should be able to do it," the dwarf Danskot assured him. He looked up. "Does this mean yer goin' ta be a healer?"

Rawlstow flicked his ears in the Vulpine equivalent of a shrug. "I always liked learnin' about Granny's herbs," he said slowly. "And surely Father Christmas wouldn't have given me th'book if he didn't mean me t'be a healer."

"Do ye think yer any good at it yet?" Danskot asked frankly.

Rawlstow hesitated. "Why d'y'ask?"

Danskot sighed. "Because Padovan dropped the hammer on his foot a coupla days ago, and it's swelled up real bad. He can't sleep fer the pain, an' seems like it's gotten worse 'stead of better. So I thought, if ye _are_ a healer, maybe ye could take a look at it."

"I'd b'glad to," Rawlstow told him.

Danskot led Rawlstow through the forge into their living quarters where Padovan lay in bed with his foot propped up on pillows. "Padovan, Rawlstow here sez he's become somethin' of a healer; I asked 'im if he'd take a look at yer foot."

Padovan turned to look at the fox with pain-dulled eyes. "Be obliged if ye would."

Rawlstow trotted to the bedside and pressed his nose to the dwarf's temple; he had quickly determined that his nose was more sensitive to temperature than his paw pads. "Yer a little feverish," he noted. "D'y'feel chilled at all?"

"A bit," Padovan admitted, stirring restlessly, then wincing as the movement shifted his foot, which was badly swollen with an ugly black bruise marring the top.

"Y'didn't wrap it?" Rawlstow questioned a little sharply.

Danskot shrugged helplessly. "We didn't know what ta do; dwarves aren't known fer bein' healers."

Rawlstow sighed a little impatiently. "Y'saw Father Christmas give me th'book; y'should have thought t'ask me." Standing on his hind legs, he felt the injury with surprisingly gentle paws.

"I think y'broke it," the fox diagnosed after some minutes, his tone more sure than his words.

Padovan groaned. "Feels like it. Can ye…do anything ta fix it, Fox?"

"Aye, I can," Rawlstow assured him. "I'll need t'go back t'my den fer supplies; in th'meantime, have some water heatin', an' y'c'n try a cold compress t'ease some o' th'pain an' swellin'," he added, turning to Danskot.

The dwarf lifted his hands helplessly. "I don't know what you mean by _compress_ — and how cold?"

"Soak a towel in th'coldest water y'have an' put it on his foot," Rawlstow explained. "Ice would be even better — but it's Spring now." He flicked his ears in a shrug.

"There's a stream in the mine that feels like it must flow over ice," Danskot volunteered eagerly.

Rawlstow nodded. "That'll do." He licked Padovan's face. "Just lie still, an' I'll be back soon."

Padovan smiled weakly, turning to watch as the white tip of Rawlstow's tail disappeared out the door.

Rawlstow trotted home briskly, turning over in his mind the supplies he would need and wishing he had thought to ask a dwarf to come help carry them.

_There has to be an easier way,_ he mused as he piled everything on a square of cloth that he hoped was strong enough not to rip through and gathered the corners in his mouth. He took one look around for the kits, but didn't see them and could only hope they weren't getting into trouble somewhere.

Then he was off back to the dwarves' cave, his neck arched back to keep the bundle from dragging on the ground. By the time he got there, he wondered if it would really have been any more uncomfortable to cover the entire distance on his hind legs.

"I have the hot water ye asked for," Danskot said by way of greeting as he entered the cave.

Rawlstow gave a muffled bark in reply, then set down the bundle and licked his lips free of lint.

"C'n y'pour a mug of it?" he requested. "He needs somethin' fer the pain before I try t'do anythin'."

Padovan watched with undisguised eagerness as Rawlstow mixed the herbs into the cup of steaming water. "Let that cool a minute, or ye'll burn yer tongue," he warned. "It will do it no harm t'steep a little, anyway." He busied himself arranging his supplies as he waited, and when he deemed it cool enough picked up the mug with one paw and slipped the other around Padovan's shoulders. "Drink it all…slowly," he told him. "It should ease th'pain an' make y'start t'feel sleepy."

Danskot shook his head in wonder. "You're a natural, Rawlstow," he marvelled. "I don't wonder Father Christmas gave ye that book. Yer probably the only one in the northern forest who would've known what ta do with it."

Slightly embarrassed by the praise, Rawlstow made no reply. "There," he murmured, laying Padovan down with a lick to his forehead. "Ye just lie quiet now."

Taking off the cold compress, he was pleased to find that the swelling had gone down a little. "I c'n make a poultice fer this, but I think th'bones may be a little out of place."

Danskot winced. "Can ye put them back?"

"I c'n try, but I'll need y't'hold him still."

Danskot paled, but stepped forward without arguing to stand where the fox placed him. Padovan jerked and cried out as Rawlstow manipulated the bones with a deftness that belied the fact that this was the first bone he had ever set.

"Done," he barked, moving to his patient's head to check his condition. His forehead was covered with cold sweat, but he lay with eyes half closed, drowsy from the effects of the draught Rawlstow had given him.

Rawlstow laid an ear to his chest for a moment, then comfortingly licked the perspiration from his face.

Padovan managed a weak smile. "Feels better already," he murmured.

"It'll be even better once it's splinted with th'poultice on," Rawlstow assured him, making a paste of several herbs with water and spreading it on a cloth, which he folded and placed over the injury. A tight bandage held on both poultice and splints and completed the fox's treatment.

"I'll b'back in th'evening t'change th'poultice and give him more fer th'pain," Rawlstow promised. "I may need t'adjust th'splint, too, as th'swellin' goes down. But make sure he stays off it until I say he c'n walk."

Danskot nodded. "We can't thank ye enough, Rawlstow."

Rawlstow gave a short bark of laughter. "Best wait t'see him cured before y'thank me. An' be sure t'send fer me if y'need me before this evening."

**oOo**

By the time the dwarves had finished Rawlstow's listener, Padovan's foot had healed enough for him to hobble around on a pair of crutches. Rawlstow examined the listener with care, finding it had been made exactly as he specified. "D'y'mind if I test it?"

"On me, ya mean?" Padovan chuckled. "Go ahead."

Rawlstow fitted on the mid-size plate, then slipped the other end over his ear and pressed the plate to Padovan's chest.

"Remarkable," he breathed. "I c'n hear everythin' — _better_ than with just m'ears. I wonder no centaur ever thought of this."

Padovan waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, _centaurs_! You're lots smarter than a centaur," he said loyally. "And I hope ya don't mind, but we've been telling some of the animals that yer settin' up as a healer, so ya might have them comin' ta ya if they get hurt or sick."

Rawlstow shrugged. "I could wish t'study more first, but better they come t'me as I am than go untreated. Danskot, if y'don't mind makin' somethin' else fer me, I've thought of a way t'carry my supplies."

Danskot nodded, looking over the plans for a sporran that would hang at Rawlstow's waist, fastened by two straps so as to remain secure whether he walked on four legs or two.

With the dwarves' promise that they would have it ready for him in a few days, he took his listener home where the kits met him, eager to see his new instrument.

"Let _us_ try, Rawlstow! Let _us_!" they begged, jumping around him eagerly.

Rawlstow hesitated, but saw no real reason to refuse. "All right, but be careful w'it. Th'dwarves won't be happy t'have t'make a new one so soon."

Soon the kits were giggling, taking turns listening to each other's hearts and lungs and even stomachs, ***** until Rawlstow stepped in and took the listener away. "It's not a toy," he warned. "Don't let me ever catch ye using it without m'permission."

"We won't, Rawlstow!" the kits promised earnestly.

**oOo**

It was with a humble modesty that was half feigned that Rawlstow showed Vroxa his invention.

"I knew you could do it!" she praised, listening with interest to his explanation of how it worked. She laid a half hesitant paw on the device. "May I?"

"If…y'want to," Rawlstow murmured, his bashfulness now not put on. He slipped the loop over her ear, then guided her paw to press the plate to his heart, wishing he could slow its pounding and wondering if she would guess his nervousness. But surely she would have no idea of what a calm heartbeat should sound like…

"It's remarkable!" she exclaimed, licking his nose. "My clever fox!"

Rawlstow's tail wagged once in appreciation, both of her praise and the term of possession.

**oOo**

Spring and Summer stretched long that year. Spring had come on the very heels of Father Christmas, while Archenland still lay under the snow of its seasonal winter. As their snows melted with the yearly coming of spring, Narnia was enjoying its third month of Spring and beginning to think of Summer.

The long stretch of golden warmth was welcome to Narnians needing to recover from lifetimes of Winter; needing the memory to fade somewhat before the first non-magical snowfall. The unusually long seasons served also to bring Narnia's weather patterns back into alignment with those of the surrounding countries.

By the end of the Summer, Vroxa had agreed to marry Rawlstow, and their first litter was born the following spring. They named the kits for the flowers they had so longed to see — Lillie, Violette, and Jonquil, the only boy.

Rawlstow's listener was not the last of his inventions as he grew to become a skilled healer. He also designed what he called a light tube, a device that reflected the light from a small oil lamp into a tube lined with mirrors, which concentrated and focused the light to enable Rawlstow to look inside body cavities.

He considered putting the designs for his instruments in his book for the aid of other healers, but in the end decided not to. He had added a remedy he discovered, and a centaur healer, recognizing the writing as Vulpine, had inserted a comment after it tinged with barely-veiled scorn.

He would continue to add medical and surgical discoveries; he would not deprive all four of the other owners of the book for what might be the opinion of only one of them. For that matter, he supposed he couldn't even be sure they were all centaurs.

But it seemed likely, and if they thought they were so superior, let them come up with his instruments on their own.

They wouldn't, though; he strongly suspected that their very superiority would make them blind to the fact that there could be a better way than how they had always down things.

Rawlstow grinned slyly; it took a fox's cleverness to see that the old way wasn't always the best way.

The End

_*** Link to illustration can be found on my profile.**_

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


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